by John Jakes
The cobbled streets were perilously narrow, too. A drainage channel ran down the center of most of them. After a few minutes on such thoroughfares, Phillipe began to make sense of the patterns of foot traffic.
Those more elegantly dressed, or more robust, or armed with swords or sticks, kept to the sides of the street closest to the walls. Shabbier, less bold pedestrians made their way down the middle, walking as best they could through and around the mess in the drainage channels—fruit peels and vegetable garbage, human turds and puddles of urine, even an occasional rotting cat carcass.
But the head as well as the feet had an occupation—to stay wary, and dodge and duck when a bone or a heap of refuse came sailing down from above without so much as a cry of warning.
Phillipe’s hair soon stank from being pelted with soggy garbage. Yet so alive and exhilarating was the spectacle around him that he learned the lesson without great anger. He started to keep sharp watch, and congratulated himself when the contents of a pot for human waste came showering down—and he pulled his mother safely out of the way.
Of all the sensations driving in upon him in one magnificent blur, the greatest, perhaps, was that of continual noise.
Stage coaches and wagons creaked and clanked in nearby streets. Young boys hawked newspapers, bellowing through tin horns. Rag pickers and post collectors rang handbells to announce their presence. Linkboys with torches already lighted against the descending darkness shouted for those ahead to make way.
When this happened, Phillipe and Marie had to fight for space along the wall, bumped here by a barber prancing along with a load of wig boxes, there by an old toothless apple woman shoving ancient-looking fruit at them with a plea that they buy. Then the linkboys would pass, preceding a sedan chair from whose windows there looked out yet another finely dressed member of the gentry, safe about the turmoil and the filth.
A cadaverous young man with yellow skin and foul breath thrust a sheaf of printed sheets under Phillipe’s nose, fairly screaming, “New songs for sale! Latest ballads and amusements of the town!”
When Phillipe tried to back away, the balladeer clutched him. Phillipe broke into French, with gestures of noncomprehension. The vendor spat an obscene word, turned away and, grinning instantly again, accosted the next potential customer.
Phillipe and Marie struggled on. He was afraid they might be going in the wrong direction now. He approached two women at a corner. Their backs were to him as he said:
“Pardon, but is this the way to St. Paul’s church?”
He expected young faces. To his horror, he saw old ones, all white paste and rouge. One of the women grabbed at his trousers, began to shamelessly manipulate his penis so hard that he quickly came to erection. The stringy-haired slut whispered, “Ye’ll not get a fancy fuck in that place, young sir. But step up the way a bit and we’ll accommodate ye. We’ll put yer auntie into the trade, too, if yer’s pressed for a livelihood—”
Once more Phillipe resorted to French and helpless gestures as a defensive weapon. The tactic incurred curses even more flamboyant than those of the song vendor. Up the lane from the corner, Phillipe glimpsed a pair of hulking men lounging in the shadows. He suspected that something more than a “fancy fuck” awaited anyone foolish enough to accept the invitation of the two sisters of the street. He and his mother hurried away.
As darkness deepened, merchants shuttered their shops. Other windows began to glow. Coffee houses, taverns, eating establishments. They had passed into a section he was told was indeed the Old City, dating to Roman times. The crowds thinned out. Phillipe grew more wary.
And more lost.
He and Marie wandered through a square of elegant brick homes, then along several more lanes to a broad avenue where huge market wagons groaned in from the country with fragrant loads of melons and cabbages and apples. The wagons lighted sparks with their iron tires. Another cart passed, full of butchered cow quarters crawling with flies.
Finally, unable to catch so much as a glimpse of the great dome above the rooftops, Phillipe accosted an old gentleman standing on a ladder at a lantern post in another square.
“Which way to St. Paul’s?” he shouted, dodging drops of hot oil that came sputtering down from the fresh-lit wick inside the box.
“That way,” waved the old gentleman, climbing down and looking annoyed because Phillipe acted confused by the generality of the instructions. That way was a dozen streets, or a hundred; who could tell in this incredible urban maze?
“Keep straight on the way ye’re going!” the lamplighter barked. “Ye’ll know the place from the immoral songs, and the beggars. I’d sooner visit hell at night.”
Grumping, he lugged his ladder to the next lantern post. Such lighting devices, Phillipe noticed, were located only in areas like this one—tree-filled squares surrounded by prosperous homes. Once back in the narrow lanes and stews, light vanished, save for that of the ubiquitous linkboys preceding their masters, who walked or rode in chairs.
Phillipe pressed on—eastward, if he reckoned directions properly now that the sun had dropped out of sight. He was stinking dirty, and dizzy from fever, lack of food, or both. Marie was no more than a voiceless weight clinging to his arm. Yet he was continually excited by it all. By the wagon noise which, if anything, increased after dark. By the yells and bawdy laughter from the taprooms and coffee houses. By the occasional cries that might have been pleasure—or pain. He even caught the sound of two distant pistol shots.
How many hours he and his mother wandered, he had no idea. He heard loud bells chime to the number of eleven when they finally turned a corner and saw a wide paved area. At its far side towered the magnificent architecture of the church he’d glimpsed from the bridge.
St. Paul’s Yard, sure enough. On the ground near numerous shuttered stalls, booths and business establishments ringing the open area lay a host of cripples and semi-invalids. Some rose to surround him and stretch out their hands— “A farthing, gentle sir. Remember the poor and save them from the curse of prison!”
Phillipe pushed a path through a half-dozen of these remarkably agile wrecks of all ages and degrees of uncleanliness. He stepped between Marie and one scabrous, slimy hand that pawed at them. He made threatening gestures. The beggars retreated, spitting at his feet, cursing him. He helped Marie up the great stone steps of the church to the doors, pulled at one of the rings.
The church was locked for the night.
He turned and surveyed the Yard. One lantern shed feeble light on a couple of seated balladeers. They passed a gin bottle back and forth between choruses featuring the most blasphemous, scatological quatrains Phillipe had ever heard.
The air had grown chill. The din of London receded. He realized how friendly a background the noise had become during the time they’d walked the mazy streets. Coach wheels grumbled and halloos rang only occasionally now, from far off. Other than the lanterns of the beggars, lights were few. A linkboy’s brand winked like a firefly down some distant lane, then vanished.
And out in a darkened section of the Yard, Phillipe heard a shuffling that prickled his scalp.
He helped Marie sit down against one of the porch pillars. She mumbled an incoherent syllable or two. Phillipe rubbed her forehead. Burning. His own wasn’t much cooler. His belly, though long accustomed to the pains of shrinkage, hurt again. His mouth was dry. The reek of his own body offended him.
He was glad to see Marie already dozing. Her torn woolen cloak provided her only protection against the night air. Again he heard a shuffle-shuffle of rag-wrapped feet—and sibilant voices.
The beggars.
He smelled them before he saw them. They advanced slowly up the steps in the darkness, stinking phantoms festooned with rags. He heard quavery old voices. Younger ones, too. Shuffle-shuffle went the feet as they came on.
Abruptly, one voice became audible:
“—leetle box. Could be jewelry. Also a long bundle. Might be a sword, General.”
“An’ th
e poor need ’em things more than the strangers do, ain’t that so?”
“True, General, true,” another man replied. Phillipe heard a raspy laugh.
The balladeers had extinguished their lantern and gone to sleep. St. Paul’s Yard was silent.
Inside the church, there might be protection, other human beings. Out here, there were only human predators, chuckling and shuffling up the stone stairs as Phillipe fumbled to unwrap Gil’s sword while there was still time.
ii
He counted eight or nine surrounding him in a half-circle. They looked shaggy because of their torn garments. The gleam of the stars above the rooftops revealed little more than-their shapes. But here and there, a detail stood out. The glisten of a pustular sore on a cheek; the paleness of light-colored facings on the old uniform coat of the one who styled himself the General.
Phillipe could see nothing of this man’s features. He was of good size, though. The top of his head gleamed faintly silver. A dirty wig. Stolen, probably. The wig hung low over his left ear, lending the General’s head a peculiar, cocked look.
Metal winked in the General’s right hand. A sword? But so short—
Then Phillipe realized the blade was broken off halfway to the tint. A wicked weapon.
His breath hissed between his teeth as he let the wrappings of his own sword fall between his feet. He kicked them behind him, waiting to see how the game would play out. One of the beggars fluttered a hand in his direction.
“ ’E’s got a proper sword indeed, General. One we might fence for a nice sum.”
“Here, sir!” the General announced, advancing up another step and flourishing his broken weapon. “Will you surrender ’at prize to me army of poor? We’re only a hop and a step away from debtor’s chains in the Fleet, don’t ye realize? ’Em valuables, sold off, will keep me troopers warm an’ cozy till Christmas or better.”
“Get away,” Phillipe warned, sidestepping nearer the pillar where his mother dozed. Marie muttered in the night’s cold. Phillipe feared for her exposed position. But he was glad the fever screened out the reality of the immediate situation. He repeated his warning:
“Get away!”
“Funny sound to his talk, ain’t they, General?” asked one of the others. “Ha’ we caught ourselves some Frenchified rat what swum the Channel?”
“Even more reason for surrendering to ’is Majesty’s sojers,” allowed the General, moving up one more step. He was now just two down from Phillipe. “Hand us ’em things an’ there’ll be no military reprisals ’gainst that old lady with you.”
Two of the raggy phantoms at the right of the ring—Phillipe’s left—suddenly scampered up the stairs, hands shooting out for the casket in Marie’s lap.
Phillipe had no chance to recall even the rudiments Gil had taught him with sticks. He had time only to pivot and bring his sword arm hacking down.
The blade bit to bone. One of the pair shrieked and dropped to his knees, wrist half severed.
“Then it’s no terms!” cried the General, sounding almost happy. “Attack, men—attack!”
The command was wholly unnecessary. With the exception of the injured beggar who fled down the stairs wailing oaths, the rest advanced as one. The ring closed with the General at the center, so close Phillipe could smell his unbelievably putrid breath. Phillipe whipped the sword up to block a downward stroke of the General’s blade. Metal rang. Sparks flew.
Hands caught at Phillipe’s legs, his ankles, tripping him off balance. He fell on the stairs, head striking stone. A beggar stamped on his belly. The General gouged at his eyes with the broken end of his sword.
Despite the pain in his middle, Phillipe managed to wrench his head aside. The General’s blade raked more sparks from the stair. Phillipe thrust out with his right arm, took satisfaction when Gil’s sword slid through rags to a thigh. Another beggar howled and scrambled away.
But the rest piled onto Phillipe, sitting on his legs, his abdomen. The General kneeled next to his head.
One rough-nailed hand caught Phillipe’s hair, lifted, then smacked his head down on the stair. The other beggars spread-eagled him, pinned his right arm out and began to scratch and claw his wrist. Phillipe’s fingers opened. He lost the sword.
The General’s crooked wig loomed, clearly defined by a sudden wash of ruddy light behind him. “Cut both their shitting throats!” the General panted, driving the end of his blade at Phillipe’s neck. Simultaneously, another voice shouted from the foot of the stairs:
“Let be, Esau! It’s none of our affair!”
Phillipe wrenched his head again, violently hard. The General’s blade gashed the left side of his throat, a fiery track of pain. At the same time, Phillipe heard a loud, solid thwack.
The General fell on Phillipe, struck from the rear. A frayed epaulette tickled Phillipe’s nose as he fought out from under the burden.
The General rolled off, staggered to hands and knees, his lowered head weaving from side to side. His wig, even further askew, hung down over his left eyebrow.
“Bleeding balls of the martyrs, who be hitting me?” he groaned. More weight lifted from Phillipe’s arms and legs; the beggars jumping up, scattering down toward the Yard—
Through blurred eyes, Phillipe glimpsed two sturdy figures. One, on the stairs, lashed about with a heavy stick, knocking a head here, a shin there.
The other man down in the Yard took no part. He was a motionless silhouette against the source of the ruddy light—a linkboy’s torch.
The attacker with the swinging stick thudded and thwacked the beggars, bawling, “You scum would pick the very linen off Christ on the cross!” He bashed one slow-moving fellow in the side of the head. The man went down in a floundering heap.
Phillipe sat up, a little more clear-headed. Suddenly a noise drew his attention toward Marie.
The General had managed to hold onto his broken blade, shifting it to his left hand as he crouched and reached for the casket. Phillipe saw his own sword being carried off by a beggar whose tatters fluttered as he ran.
Ignoring the warm, sticky wash leaking down his neck into his collar, Phillipe lurched after the thief. He caught him in the Yard and tackled him around the middle.
A-tumble, they rolled back toward the bottom of the stairs. Phillipe used his fist to bludgeon the back of the man’s head, heard teeth crack on the paving stones. Then he was on his feet with Gil’s sword secure in his sweaty right hand.
The big stranger had caught two more of the hapless beggars and was trouncing them in turn. Mere boys, Phillipe saw by the guttering torch. But he felt no pity—nor had he time for any. The General, one hand clutching his half-sword, the other Marie’s casket, was pelting down the steps toward the sanctuary of the darkness beyond the torchlight.
Phillipe drove himself into a run, caught up with the older man and killed him with one sword stroke through the back.
The General crashed onto his belly. The side of his face flattened against the pavement. His mouth flopped open as his bowels emptied, a terrible stench.
The big stranger on the steps paused to search for more enemies; saw none. He jogged down toward Phillipe, slapping his stick against his tight breeches while his companion and the linkboy approached to bend and stare at the General.
Phillipe retrieved the casket. Unbroken, he saw with relief. The stranger who hadn’t fought said thickly to the other:
“Now there’s murder done, Esau. To whom do we explain that?”
“To no one, Hosea. Because no one cares. Vermin squashed, that’s all. They’re a ruination of the neighborhood anyway. The good fathers locked up safely inside Paul’s can decide what to do with the body in the morning. Let them be thankful decent citizens are protecting their holy sanctuary.”
“But the boy—”
“Our linkboy saw nothing. Heard nothing.” The big young man with clubbed hair swung toward the shabbily dressed carrier of the torch. “Did you, now?”
“No, Mr. Sholto. I’ve your
money in my pocket to assure I didn’t.”
“Then let’s go home,” mumbled the other stranger, still with that slightly thickened speech. He bore a strong resemblance to his companion with the stick. He had the same wide shoulders and heavy, squarish jaw, though he looked to be a year or so younger. Perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two. Rather petulantly, he added, “You’d have us rescuing half the poor in London, I suppose.”
“Only those unjustly preyed upon, Hosea.”
The young man with the stick approached Phillipe. He had a blunt jaw, a broad nose, thick brows—and a suddenly amiable grin. “I heard the hullabaloo as we rounded yon corner, sir. I saw you put up a nice fight, considering the way they outnumbered you. I am Mr. Esau Sholto. This somewhat tipsy gentleman’s my brother, Hosea. He’s a good boy, but not of a temperament for street brawling.”
“I’m grateful to both of you,” Phillipe said. “I think they’d have killed us.” He bent down and wiped Gil’s blade on the patched back of the General’s filthy uniform.
For a moment he glanced at the hideous wound left by his blade. Perhaps because of his feverish condition, or his exhaustion, he felt nothing. He’d changed a great deal since the woods where he’d accidentally killed Gil’s would-be kidnapper. Well, so be it. That, apparently, was the price of survival.
Clutching casket and sword, he saw Mr. Esau Sholto flick a speck of dirt from the lacy ruffle at his throat as the latter said:
“Yes, sir, they would have killed you. For that reason, sensible folk stay shuttered indoors at night. Save when one brother must go with another to see he doesn’t wager away the family business at the new quinze table in White’s public rooms. Were you sleeping by yonder pillar?”
Phillipe nodded. “We came to town this afternoon. A church seemed a good place—”
“No, not any London church or street, after dark,” advised Esau Sholto. “But you’ve learned that lesson, eh? Your speech isn’t regular English. Do you come from France?”
Phillipe knew he must be careful. “Originally—some months ago. Then last week, we decided to journey up from—” he hedged the rest— “from the south.”